House on Fire

HOUSE ON FIRE

ARCH OBOLER

with a new introduction by

CHRISTOPHER CONLON

VALANCOURT BOOKS

House on Fire by Arch Oboler

First published New York: Bartholomew House, 1969

First Valancourt Books edition 2015

Copyright © 1969 by Arch Oboler

Introduction © 2015 by Christopher Conlon

Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia

http://www.valancourtbooks.com

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the copying, scanning, uploading, and/or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.

Cover by Lorenzo Princi / lorenzoprinci.com

INTRODUCTION

Writer on Fire: Rediscovering Arch Oboler

There was a time, and it wasn’t so long ago, that the name Arch Oboler was familiar to anybody in America with access to a radio. Along with Orson Welles and Norman Corwin, Oboler was one of the Big Three radio writer/producer/directors who in the 1930s and ’40s essentially shaped the new medium’s crea­tive and cultural sensibilities. Each man had the highest artis­tic aspirations for radio drama; each spearheaded innovative, lit­erate shows that made huge impacts on millions of people; each fought with ratings-obsessed networks and sponsors to get qual­ity material on the air; and each left behind a marvelous legacy of timeless programs preserved in archive recordings.

But of the Big Three, only Welles is clearly remembered today – and that has far more to do with his career as a movie star and director of Citizen Kane than with his radio work.

Arch Oboler, meanwhile, has vanished from our collective memory.

That’s a terrible thing. It’s also understandable. The truth is, a culture quickly forgets those artists, no matter how extra­ordinarily accomplished, who did their best and most character­istic work in art forms that later perished. How many silent-film stars can the average movie fan name today? How many vaudevillians can most theatergoers identify? The forms died, and with them, the names of even their finest practitioners. The Golden Age of Radio has now faded almost completely from living memory, and so the names of many of its greatest talents have simply dis­appeared – including the name of Arch Oboler.

Born in Chicago in 1907 (some sources incorrectly state 1909) of Jewish Latvian immigrant parents, Oboler distinguished him­self early in life as a dynamo of creative energy. When he was all of ten years old he sold a short story he’d written about an amorous dinosaur to The Chicago Daily News. In 1933 he sold his first radio script, Futuristics, to NBC; three years and dozens of scripts later he took over Wyllis Cooper’s late-night horror anthology Lights Out. Though the number of people today with any serious interest in old-time radio is very small, two of Oboler’s scripts for this audio Grand Guignol have nonetheless gained a kind of indirect immortality. Bill Cosby’s album Wonderfulness, released in 1966 and still in print, featured the comedian’s now legendary routine about listening to Oboler’s Chicken Heart as a terror-stricken child, and in 1994 the cartoon series The Simpsons included a nod to another Lights Out classic, The Dark – in which a strange fog turns human bodies inside out – in the episode Treehouse of Terror V.

But horror was only a small part of Oboler’s oeuvre. In 1939 the young man became the first writer to have a network radio series, Arch Oboler’s Plays, devoted exclusively to his work. The scripts occasionally utilized fantasy devices, but for the most part they were mainstream dramas. Major stars routinely appeared on the program – Ingrid Bergman, Katharine Hepburn – and this helped increase the young writer’s fame exponentially. Other Oboler series, including Free World Theater, Plays for Americans, and Everything for the Boys, soon followed, cementing Oboler’s status as one of radio’s preeminent dramatist-visionaries. In 1945 he received the prestigious Peabody Award for Outstanding Entertainment in Drama.

And then it all ended.

Oboler saw it coming. During this period he wrote: Tele­vision will eventually supplant ‘blind’ broadcasting even as sound pictures did away with silent movies. Throughout the 1940s he positioned himself for this inevitable transition, working his way into motion pictures through a contract with MGM, where he wrote, produced and directed several films with B-movie bud­gets. Around the time radio drama was breathing its last he left the studio system behind, becoming one of the first true inde­pendent filmmakers. Several of Oboler’s films are of historical interest. Bewitched (1945) is a study of split personality which predates Psycho by fifteen years; Five (1951) is generally acknowledged as the first post-nuclear-apocalypse film; and Bwana Devil (1952) is the movie that kicked off the 1950s 3D craze.

The dynamo that was Arch Oboler never stopped generating energy, and with radio’s demise, Oboler never stopped searching for new modes of expression. Though understandably not a fan of the medium, he tried his hand at television with the Arch Oboler Comedy Theater in 1949. Nineteen fifty-six saw the Broad­way premiere of Oboler’s Night of the Auk, a science fiction play in blank verse. He continued to experiment with various 3D motion picture systems in several films throughout the 1960s. And in 1969, at age sixty-two, Oboler broke through into yet another new form. He wrote his first and only novel – House on Fire.

In its basic plot of two strange, possibly possessed children and their horrifying effect on the adults around them, House on Fire at first glance seems to derive from other popular devil-child novels of the era, including Ray Russell’s The Case Against Satan (1963) and Ira Levin’s Rosemary’s Baby (1967). But despite the spooky goings-on, House on Fire is only tangentially a horror novel in the generic sense. Oboler is playing for different stakes here, as re­vealed by the title of the novel itself, which comes from a John Donne sermon: His mercies hath applied His judgments, and hath shaked the house, this body, with agues and palsies, and set this house on fire with fevers and calentures, and frightened the master of the house, which is my soul, with horrors. Many souls are on fire in this novel, kindled by both appar­ently super­natural forces (the spirit of a devil of a mother dead for the past six months) and ones all too ordinary. As one character puts it, Suddenly there’s the Bomb! Suddenly there’s the Hate, black, white, brown, yellow! Suddenly there’s the kids and the Drugs – pot, LSD, speed! Suddenly there’s Business back to dog-eat-dog, grabbing and swallowing everything in sight! Suddenly it’s everybody, running without faith or hope, running, running to the cliff! Within what appears to be a simple story of possession from beyond the grave, Oboler paints a dark picture of the world around him in the late 1960s – a world portrayed here as unmoored and valueless, in which God has either died in our time or else is running far, far out at the edges of nowhere. It is a black, bitter vision.

And yet House on Fire is a richly entertaining novel. It is clearly the work of a radio writer, or at least a script writer; the story is carried largely through dialogue, there is little physical description, and the entire narrative is structured in three parts, like any typical Broadway play or hour-long radio drama. (In­deed, Oboler scripted an hour-long adaptation of the novel in 1980 for the Mutual Radio Theater.) Predictably, the dialogue is excellent; the Yiddish-inflected conversations of Sam and Mary Elias may reflect the rhythms of speech Oboler heard from the lips of his Latvian parents when he was a boy. The Los Angeles-area settings are precisely rendered. The story unfolds at a lei­surely but engaging pace, and builds to a memorable climax. Thus, both as a straightforward scary story and as a meditation on deeper philosophical questions, House on Fire succeeds – and leaves the reader wishing that Oboler, who passed away in 1987, had chosen to write more prose fiction.

Might an Arch Oboler revival be possible today? The work he left behind is compelling – hundreds upon hundreds of radio recordings, a dozen or so films, several books of scripts as well as House on Fire. The best of this material stands the test of time. What didn’t stand the same test, of course, was radio drama itself; despite various latter-day attempts over the years (including the Mutual Radio Theater), the form remains stub­bornly dead. Oboler’s films might provide a more palatable way in for contemporary audiences, but they are frustratingly inaccessible – low-quality bootlegs can be found, but among his major cinematic works only Five has enjoyed a proper DVD release. There has never been a biography.

But this new edition of House on Fire gives reason for hope. In its subject matter the novel is, if anything, even more relevant today than it was in 1969. Readers who step into this particular flame-seared house may at times find themselves anxious, even frightened, but in the end they will be rewarded with one of the most powerfully offbeat stories of its era.

House on Fire opens a window for us into both the author’s soul and our own. More can hardly be asked of any novel.

Christopher Conlon

October 2014

Christopher Conlon is a writer and editor best known for his Richard Matheson tribute anthology He Is Legend, which won the Bram Stoker Award and was a selection of the Science Fiction Book Club. His novels include the Stoker Award finalists A Matrix of Angels – the most wrenching serial-killer novel of the past decade, according to Booklist – and Midnight on Mourn Street. Conlon lives in the Washington, D.C. area. Visit him online at christopherconlon.com.

HOUSE ON FIRE

To Jerry and Poofer –

who fear only

unkindness

and

thunder

PART ONE

Chapter 1

The great flame assaulted the sky. In the darkness the red phallic thrust could be seen everywhere, from the sea, to the hills, to the mountains circling the basin that cupped the city. And where the larger mountains shut off the view, the scarlet mirrored off the high night clouds.

And everywhere the people converged upon it; in spite of official pleas on radio and television, thousands upon thousands moved toward the flame and pressed against the police barri­cades, their faces crimsoned, their ears deafened by the gigantic geyser of flame.

Somewhere among them stood Robin Shepherd. She wept. And the swirling heat dried her tears almost as quickly as they were shed.

The cage slid downward and the Muzak tape sang a muted canticle to Sunday morning.

Mr. Bannerman, 17D, addressed the aged toy poodle alert in the crook of his arm. He frighten you, Albert? Me, he does not frighten!

Albert’s ears twitched at the explosive snort of Mrs. Cihack, 14A.

A boy with such eyes! she said.

A genius! Mr. Bannerman said firmly.

Personally, I don’t believe in pushing children too fast! A child should be a child, not a . . . a scientific curiosity!

Mr. Bannerman said mildly, To me he appears to be a very normal child.

Again the small dog reacted to a prodigious snort.

Normal! He rides in the elevator with me, he doesn’t open his mouth, his big eyes looking. You could think I was some kind of a specimen!

To me he talks, Mr. Bannerman told her.

Is that so? For instance?

He says hello, good morning, good evening. At the woman’s look: So what should a small boy talk to an old man? A medical conversation about my high cholesterol?

Mrs. Cihack’s third snort was lost in the opening of the door as relays tripped in response to a tenth floor impulse.

Good morning, Mrs. Elias, Mr. Bannerman greeted. We were just talking about you! My heartiest congratulations!

Mary Elias’s face was a Scottish Highlands morning beacon of happiness. Thank you, Mr. Bannerman.

Mrs. Cihack said swiftly, You also have my best wishes on your good fortune!

Thank you!

Such a boy! marveled Mr. Bannerman. A five-thousand-dollar scholarship! He addressed the dog. Did you hear that, Albert? Five thousand dollars! It says so right in the Sunday paper! Mark Elias – absolutely first in the National Science Schol­arship!

He would have gone on, but Mrs. Cihack interrupted him. All right, all right, she knows already!

Mary Elias said, Yes, we knew about it last night. My husband drove down and got the first edition right at the newspaper. She dimpled. You know – a father!

The elevator stopped and the doors parted as a chubby, blonde middle-aged woman entered. As the doors sighed to­gether and the elevator movement began again, she said, I beg your pardon, aren’t you the Mrs. Elias from the tenth floor?

Mary Elias smiled. Yes, I am.

Congratulations! I just read about your boy! It’s really won­derful! At his age! Thirteen?

The proud mother told her that was not until next month.

Mrs. Cihack addressed the ceiling grille. My Seymour is very artistic. You should see the marvelous picture he made at camp last summer! Pine trees!

What college will he be going to, Mrs. Elias? Mr. Bannerman wanted to know.

We really don’t know. That’s two or three years away. He’s just a boy.

But a genius! Mr. Bannerman said firmly.

You can certainly say that again! the blonde woman stated.

The elevator had reached the main floor and the doors were opening. Mr. Bannerman stood aside as the women moved out.

Mrs. Cihack moved away with a parting, "Personally I don’t believe in pushing a child!"

The blonde woman gave Mary Elias a too bad about her! look, then she said, I suppose you’ll be celebrating today.

The happy mother said, Yes, indeed. Tonight. Her face so­bered as she added, Nothing elaborate. My mother-in-law died only six months ago. But we decided to have a party for the boy’s sake so that he wouldn’t think we were ignoring the wonderful thing he did. She was looking into her handbag. Now what did I do with my grocery list?

The blonde woman pulled at her girdle. Well, congratulations again. It’s a wonderful thing for the whole building! She moved toward the morning sun beyond the expanse of glass doors.

Mary Elias said, Thank you very much, as she continued to search through pockets.

Mr. Bannerman’s Albert squinted at the green hedges beyond the door and sighed heavily. The old man said, Maybe you left it in the elevator?

Mary said, Yes. Maybe I did.

She moved back toward the shaft and Mr. Bannerman fol­lowed her. And where is the proud papa this beautiful morning? He held the door as the woman started to search in the enclosure.

I spent thirty minutes on that list! . . . Oh, he’s busy calling up everybody! Honestly, I don’t know where it comes from, this science thing with Mark! My husband can’t even use a screw­driver, and me, I can’t even hold on to a grocery list.

A short, thin-faced man in his late thirties had come up, and Mr. Bannerman said hastily, I’m just holding the elevator door. She’s looking for something.

Mary Elias turned. Why, Dave! How nice! Mr. Bannerman, I don’t think you ever met my brother-in-law. Mr. Bannerman – Dave Elias.

The men exchanged greetings, then Dave Elias said, What’s going on?

Mary said, Oh, I was on my way to the grocery and lost the list! Naturally! She moved out of the elevator. Somebody might want to use the elevator. Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Bannerman. I’ll just have to remember what I need.

It was my pleasure, the old man said. Congratulations again! All right, Albert, all right! In a minute! You’ll be outside. He put the old dog down and followed the eager, scrabbling feet.

Mary said to her brother-in-law, Why don’t you go right up? I’ll be back in a little while. You’ll be at the party tonight?

Dave said, "Yeah, Sam called me earlier. But I wanted to talk to you."

All right, we’ll go up – 

No, no, it’ll just take me a minute. I wanted you to know. I came to take the boy to the synagogue.

Mary Elias said nothing. She thought, he’s getting thinner. He’s beginning to look more and more like that movie actor – what was his name? – Basil Rathbone when he was younger.

Dave Elias said, "I thought about it last night the minute Sam called about the telegram. I said to myself, ‘Tomorrow morning that boy’s gotta go to shul! It’s about time he was a little grateful to God!’ "

Mary said, Yes, yes, of course. But – not this morning, Dave, please.

What’s wrong with this morning? he demanded. Listen, do you realize that kid is almost ready for confirmation? What does Sam want to do – have him grow up the way we did?

Mary said quietly, I think there’s a difference.

"Then let the boy go to synagogue once! Just once in his life! Today!"

Mary Elias said softly, Dave, I know how important this is to you but – 

Dave Elias said agitatedly, "To him!"

Mary Elias looked nervously toward the elevator. The door had closed some moments before. She said quietly, Do you think Sam and I haven’t talked about it and talked about it?

Talking! The boy’s almost thirteen!

Mary said, What can we do?

"You’re his mother! Make him go! If not the synagogue, all right! Take him to your church – Episcopalian or whatever it is!"

Mary Elias said, Presbyterian. If he were an ordinary boy, I’d agree with you.

Ordinary, extra-ordinary! What’s that got to do with paying your respects to God?

Mary Elias said quietly, You’ve forgotten something. Perhaps a death in the family is more important to children than you realize.

Dave Elias’s face lost its truculence. He said almost inaudibly, All right. He turned away quickly.

Dave, aren’t you going up?

I’ll be late for the services.

Mary called after him. I’ll see you tonight! Don’t be late! Her hand had gone into her coat pocket. It came out with a crumpled bit of paper and she sighed and straightened it out and saw that it was her grocery list. She decided to wait a moment and give her brother-in-law plenty of time to get to his car and drive off before she herself went out into the smog-browned sunlight. She sighed. What an emotional family she had married into! Was